Three months later, the "Chasing Light" camp smelled like fresh paint and rubber. The old tin shed was gone, replaced with a roofed court; Lakers-donated plastic flooring glowed under the sun, and a mural of a basketball splitting into starlight covered one wall—the teens had painted it, with Lin Mo's jersey number hidden in the stars.
Lin Mo leaned against the fence, watching the team trainer kneel to adjust a kid's shooting elbow. "Elbow up, like holding a glass of water," the trainer said, parroting Lin Mo's old line.
"Looks like you've got competition for 'best teacher.'"
Lin Mo turned. James stood beside him, arms crossed, grinning as the one-armed teen zipped a no-look pass past him. The kid laughed, prosthetic arm glinting. "Told you I've been practicing, Mr. James!"
James clapped him on the back. "You're making me look bad. Think I need a few lessons?"
Inside the Lakers' locker room that night, the new tatic board had more than plays. Someone had taped a photo of the camp court to the corner, and scrawled above it: "Rhythm > Plays." Lin Mo ran a finger over his palm—the callus was still there, but the new skin underneath felt like armor.
The regular season finale ended with the crowd chanting his name. His stats: 8 points, 12 assists, 5 steals. As he walked off, he spotted a sea of shirts: "Rhythm Basketball," designed by the camp kids—blue and yellow, the Lakers' colors, with a tiny prosthetic hand dribbling a star.
Lin Mo touched his palm again, and for a second, he was back in that dim dorm room, drawing defensive routes for a kid with a prosthetic arm. Now here he was, with that same kid's lessons stitched into his game.
Growth, he thought, wasn't a straight line. It was a circle—giving what you'd learned, then learning again from the giving.
His story, he knew, was just starting to find its rhythm.